


Five Times Breezy Hooks Tracy Morgan Up With Good Advice (And One Time Tracy Hits Him Back)

by luxover



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's okay to be nervous, okay to be angry, okay to be whatever," Breezy says. They're sitting on the bench in the locker room, and while Tracy's only got his first layer of gear on, his chains hanging out over his chest pads, Breezy's already all decked out, his mask on and pushed back on top of his head. He's leaning forward, too, his elbows on his knees as he imparts his wisdom and does his Yoda shit.</p><p>Based on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0DHKbqbiVA">this 24/7 Flyers/Rangers spoof.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Breezy Hooks Tracy Morgan Up With Good Advice (And One Time Tracy Hits Him Back)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation, dignity, shame, etc, etc. A million thanks to [Distira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/distira) for everything.

i. 

The thing about him and Breezy—

The thing is, on paper, they shouldn’t get along; they’re too different, they’re from different countries and play for different teams. Tracy’s a tough guy, he’s from the Bronx, and Breezy’s just some guy from Russia who’s always thinking but never really getting his hands dirty. Tracy's not been able to hit it off with a lot of hockey players because of stuff like that, but Breezy? Breezy’s just on a completely different level from everyone else. He says they're friends because the two of them are on the same wavelength, and Tracy likes that. Breezy’s a smart guy; he knows his shit.

“Ah, but you only _think_ I do,” Breezy points out to him one night when they’re outside, looking at the stars. They’re at Breezy’s place, enjoying some downtime after a tough game against one another, and in a few minutes, they’ll throw some steaks on the grill, crack open a couple of beers. Breezy's just finished telling him about Huskies being the hot blondes of the dog world, and Tracy never would have even thought of that. “Universe is so humongous big, who’s to say we actually know what we think we know?”

“Breezy,” Tracy says, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.”

Breezy just waves his comment away and then leans forward, rests his forearms on the wooden deck railing as he looks towards the nighttime sky.

“You say you want to call HBO,” Breezy says after a beat. “I have advice for you. For both of us, I think.”

“Then lay it on me,” Tracy says, his gold chains clinking together as he gestures towards himself. He doesn’t take advice from most people, but Breezy’s the exception and not the rule. He’s done Tracy solid in the past.

“Whatever you do, you have to be happy yourself, inside,” he says. “Otherwise, what is point of life?”

“I don’t know,” Tracy says, mostly because he feels that if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll be hanging Breezy out to dry. He’s not so sure there _is_ a point to life, but if the point is to be happy, he’s got a lot of shit to fix.

By the time HBO comes down from Connecticut, Tracy’s changed some things: he’s gotten two new gold chains, because they make him happy; he’s gotten closer with his wife, because talking to her makes him happy; and he’s fired Fredrik, his Swedish masseur, in order to replace him with two women named Kelly and Keiana, because their melodic voices and delicate hands make him happy.

It’s a whole new way of life for Tracy, but Breezy was right: maybe this is the point of everything.

“I think I’ve got a lot to learn from you,” Henrik says, smiling as he juggles a few rolls of tape, and MDZ laughs.

“Like maybe your masseuse’s number,” he says, but Tracy knows that kid, and he’s not joking. “Either of them single?”

Tracy just shrugs and he tells them, “Hey, you know, you just gotta do what makes you happy. Breezy turned me onto that.”

Dubi rolls his eyes and scoffs a little, because Breezy’s a Flyer—the _enemy._ Tracy just ignores him because he’s happy, and what’s Dubi got, anyway? A bad side part?

Tracy’s got no worries. As Breezy would say, all his problems are nothing.

 

ii.

Tracy gets cut halfway through 24/7 and it pulls the fucking rug out from underneath his Jordans. He’s a _star player;_ people come out to see _Tracy Morgan,_ not the Rangers. The Rangers are nothing without him.

He calls Breezy from the car and breaks down again, rehashing how _I was the one who made the call to Connecticut to get 24/7 down here,_ because it’s true. But Breezy’s got a way with words, and he’ll be a lot more helpful to Tracy than the fucking cameramen, who didn’t say anything, and so Tracy feels justified. 

“I am the best they got!” Tracy says. “Lunquest? I don’t even _like_ that guy! Callahan? He can go home. Dan Giardia? The fact that he even plays makes me _sick._ ”

There’s a pause after that where neither of them says anything, and Tracy angrily rips his custom-made, rhinestoned Rangers fuzzy dice off his rearview mirror and throws them in the back seat. He debates, briefly, reaching back for them and then throwing them out the window, but he can eBay that shit, and so he doesn’t.

“Tracy,” Breezy says. “It’s okay to cry; emotions are for feeling.”

And so Tracy wails, “Why’d they cut me, man?”

Breezy starts to say something back, but Tracy misses a lot of it because he puts his phone down on the center console, driving his Range Rover with his knees while he adjusts his durag. And that’s another think he’ll have to get rid of—his Ranger Rover—because it just sounds too close.

By the time he picks back up, Breezy’s saying, “—free agent. _If you can play, you can play,_ and you can play.” 

“Hey, yo, Breezy, I don’t think that’s what that’s about,” Tracy says, cutting him off, but maybe Tracy didn’t pay close enough attention when he was filming his spot, he doesn’t know.

“Whatever it’s about, you can play,” Breezy says. “My advice? Forget Rangers. Go find new team.”

And that—is a very good idea. Tracy doesn’t even like the Rangers, _anyway._ He’s going to find a new team and win some trophies and show Torto-fucking-rella why Tracy fucking Morgan is a big deal.

Only, there’s still that 24/7 thing happening, and that’s _Tracy’s thing,_ and he’s not letting the last they see of him be him getting cut. Plus he likes the publicity of it; it’s good for jersey sales.

So he demands, “Breezy, send me Laviolette’s number. I’m gonna call him after my massage.”

Breezy laughs, says, “You look good in orange,” and so Tracy feels it’s basically a done deal.

John Tortorella: ex-coach; Peter Laviolette: next coach. And Tracy? He’s feeling pretty fucking good about it.

 

iii.

Tracy's first game as a Flyer just so happens to be against the Rangers, which is _fine_ because Tracy has cut his ties, but he's still feeling pretty tense about things, and so he heads to the rink early, unwinds to some Phil Collins. That helps some—"I Don’t Care Anymore," really resonates with him—but what helps the most is just talking to his boy, Breezy.

Breezy—he just gets things.

"It's okay to be nervous, okay to be angry, okay to be whatever," Breezy says. They're sitting on the bench in the locker room, and while Tracy's only got his first layer of gear on, his chains hanging out over his chest pads, Breezy's already all decked out, his mask on and pushed back on top of his head. He's leaning forward, too, his elbows on his knees as he imparts his wisdom and does his Yoda shit.

"But, you know, Breezy," Tracy says honestly, "they cut me deep, man."

"I know," Breezy says. "But let your goals do the talking, and you feel better. Trust me."

And Tracy—he's not so sure about that, but Breezy's the smartest guy he knows, and he figures it's worth a try.

So he goes out there, first line because the coach knows what's up, and Tracy just does his thing, does his hockey thing. He scores halfway through the first period and then moonwalks on his skates in celebration, and the Rangers? They get a little upset, because Tracy's rocking the boat. Tracy can't help it; he's letting his goals do the talking.

The next time he's out on the ice, though, it's like there's a target on his back, and Del Zotto keeps checking him hard, keeps chirping him hard. Tracy thinks this kid needs a Breezy of his own, because he is next level _high-strung,_ but Tracy refuses to fight back, because he's doing things the Breezy way.

Only then Del Zotto says, "And you stole my stuff! I thought we were friends, man!" and that's not cool with Tracy. Tracy Morgan doesn't steal shit; Tracy Morgan _makes money._

So Tracy says, "Don't try me, Del Zotto! You owe me cash!" and when Del Zotto shoves him, Tracy sends a quick mental apology to Breezy and shoves back.

He gets ready for the fight, only the fight never happens, because then Rinny comes flying over from the other side of the ice and lays Del Zotto flat on his ass.

"Hey, yo, Rinny!" Tracy calls out, when Rinny's skating over to the box for his minutes, his face a little banged up. Tracy doesn't know how to say thank you, so instead he just thumps his closed fist against his chest twice and then points at Rinaldo.

"Gotta protect the talent," Rinny calls back with a shrug, and that—

Tracy looks over towards Breezy and shoots him a thumbs up, because Breezy was right: he does feel better.

 

iv.

Tracy fits right in with the Flyers: he’s got more teeth and is honestly better looking than Claude and Coots; Hartsy is always filming him to put online, even after HBO’s long since gone, which he appreciates; and Breezy is there to drop bombs of wisdom whenever he wants to hear them, which is everyday, because Breezy—he just sees the world so clearly. Danny B even invited Tracy to live in the Briere household, but Tracy had to decline and remind him, “Come on, man—I’ve got a wife!”

If Tracy wanted kids, he’d have kids, but really all he wants is to _try_ to have kids.

So Tracy’s doing good, just doing his thing—playing hockey, playing hockey—when his personal life takes a turn for the worse. His wife finds out about Kelly and Keiana, and she gets mad, all up in Tracy’s business, and she kicks him out of _his own house._ It’s his own house!

Breezy, though—he’s a friend. He lets Tracy stay in his guest room, lets him get drunk and doesn’t freak out when Tracy breaks his telescope, and the next morning, he brings Tracy a glass of water and a shot of vodka while he’s still in bed.

“Hair of the dog,” Breezy says when Tracy knocks the shot back, and this is one of those weird moments where if it was anyone else, Tracy would _peace out._

As it is, he just scratches Breezy’s dog behind the ear and says, “No thanks, Breezy, I’m good with this.”

Breezy looks at him like he doesn’t really understand, but Tracy cuts him a little slack because English isn’t Breezy’s first language, and then he moves his legs over when Breezy starts to sit down on the edge of the bed. Tracy doesn’t sit up fully, but he does adjust his chains so he looks a little more presentable.

“Now, I know is none of my business,” Breezy says, “but can I give you advice?”

“Breezay,” Tracy says, “you’re my _Yoda,_ man. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Breezy laughs and nods, says, “Right, right,” before becoming serious again. “This is very important, so listen careful: happy wife means happy life.”

“Happy wife means happy life,” Tracy repeats. “Damn. That’s fucking beautiful, Breezy." He waits a beat, but Breezy doesn't seem to be going anywhere after that, so Tracy adds, "Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta make a call.”

It’s hard, breaking the news to Kelly and Keiana, and it’s even harder trying to win Fredrik back, but Tracy does it because take advice he must.

Plus, his wife lets him come back home after that, and when he tells her, “Baby, I only got eyes for you,” she does that thing to his ear and it tickles.

Happy life.

 

v.

The Stanley Cup Playoffs are a beautiful thing; Tracy’s always said that. The atmosphere, the energy, the beards… Tracy doesn’t grow a beard, but when he was younger he had a classic Rick Ross, and so he feels like luck should still be on his side. 

“It’s not just about luck,” Hartsy says, and although Tracy thinks it, he doesn’t actually tell Scott that he’s kidding himself.

He mentions it to Breezy later, though, after all the guys chirp him and call him their very own Adam Oates. He and Breezy are leaving the Skate Zone one morning after practice, and Tracy’s in a bit of a bad mood because he has the feeling someone used his loofah again, but he has no proof.

Instead of bringing up his suspicions, he brings up something else that’s on his mind and says, “Breezy, you got a nice beard, you know?” And Breezy—he just knows what Tracy means by that. Great minds, and all that.

"Tracy," he says like it's obvious. "Don't listen to them. You don't want beard? Don't grow beard."

"I _don't_ want a beard," Tracy says, rubbing at his jaw with one closed fist. The tie of his durag is caught underneath the strap of his bag, keeping him from really turning his head, and so instead he looks out at the parking lot, and at the motorcycle that's probably Jake overcompensating.

"Then problem solved," Breezy says. "It's like—you know Samson?"

"Is that the guy who makes our shakes?"

"No, the _story_ of Samson." Breezy clarifies. "I think that's where this is from; hair gives man strength, so we grow beards to be strong on the ice."

"Yeah," Tracy responds after a minute, still thinking about it. If his hair gave a man his strength, his cousin Russell's afro is starting to make a little more sense. But as it is... "I don't know about that."

"If you don't know, then you don't know," Breezy says, like it's that easy. "Then forget about beard. Find what makes you strong, out of everything in whole of universe, and then—" he smiles at Tracy, "then we win the Cup."

The only problem with that is that Tracy doesn't know where he gets his strength from, just that he's got it. So he thinks about it while he's driving home, and he thinks about it while he's eating dinner, and he thinks about it while he's in bed, snuggling his wife.

When it hits him, it's so obvious that he's embarrassed he didn't see it sooner. Tracy doesn't need superstitions because he's Mickey. The Mickey Mouse Club's not about Donald or Goofy—it's about Mickey, and _he's Mickey,_ not Sidney Crosby, not Gaborik, _him._ Walt Disney would never let Donald or Goofy win the Stanley Cup, and _that's_ where Tracy's strength comes from. He doesn't need a beard because it's his destiny to win without one. _He's Mickey._

Tracy pulls his wife closer and makes a mental note to tell Breezy about that destiny thing. Breezy'll like that.

 

i.

Tracy never thought he'd live to play in the deciding game of the Stanley Cup Finals. He always assumed that he'd just do it all in one go, win the first four straight, and that would be that. This is a lot more work, and Tracy's ready to take his victory money and go on a Caribbean cruise already.

Only maybe there won't _be_ any victory money, becayse they're down by two at the end of the second period, and Tracy didn't plan for that.

"This is bullshit," G says, taking off his shoulder pads and tossing them into his stall. "We're better than this."

And they are. They're Flyers, they play a physical game, and Tracy loves that, loves getting physical, and he's good at it, too, which is why he's the superstar and not Brayden Schenn. Brayden Schenn didn't grow up in the Bronx, getting into fights and learning how to be mean, and Tracy gets that, but if Brayden could score a fucking goal or two, he'd still really appreciate it.

Tracy sits down in the stall next to Breezy's, even though it's not his, and he takes off his gear almost all the way, his stomach out as Laviolette does his thing, his talking thing, _Penalty kill_ this, _Defense_ that. Tracy doesn't really listen much, because his job is scoring, and he's going to go back out there and do that, anyway.

Breezy looks at him during a moment of silence in the locker room a few minutes later, and he says, "Universe is so humongous big, and there are so many possible—"

"Breezy," Tracy interrupts. "You shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you."

And Breezy does shut his mouth, because while Tracy talks to a lot of people like that, it's never to Breezy. But the thing is, Tracy thinks that maybe if Breezy had finished his thought, the worst possible outcome would've come true, and Tracy? He's already got plans to spend his Cup Day outside John Tortorella's house, so he needs this shit to go off without a hitch.

"Let me hit you back with a little something," Tracy says. "The universe is, you know—it's big." And that's really as far as he had gotten in his head, so he takes a minute to think something else up before finally just threatening, "Breezay—if we don't win, I'm calling Subban tomorrow morning, and I'm going to Montreal."

"You would hate Montreal," Breezy says. "You know you don't like the cold."

And Tracy thinks about saying, _Who's to say we actually know what we think we know?_ but the thing is, he does. Tracy _knows_ they're going to win, because he's Mickey.

"I refuse to lose to a team that passed me up in the draft," Tracy says. Someone in the locker room shouts that they've only got five minutes left, and so Tracy turns to start putting his gear back on before rethinking it. Instead, he takes off one of his gold chains and loops it around Breezy's neck. "Don't let any goals in," he says. "I'm gonna go score a hat trick."

And _then_ he starts putting his gear back on.

Everyone always told him it would be the lightest thirty-four and a half pounds he’ll ever lift, but twenty minutes of hockey and way too much waiting around later, Tracy would like to go on record saying that shit is _heavy,_ and if he'd have known, he would've hired someone else to do it for him.


End file.
